


II. Artifacts

by illicio



Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 05:06:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2012025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illicio/pseuds/illicio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Artifacts not of the jpeg variety.  Two visits Aoba paid Noiz at the end of his DMMD good route.</p>
            </blockquote>





	II. Artifacts

 

 

 

 

 

"Did you notice when you were sick?"

Noiz tilts his head toward the voice. It's about all he can do: he owes this level perspective to the hospital bed, which elevates his upper body. His brows furrow; mouth bent around a frown--less about the thought he's trying to find and more about the fact this is the natural shape his lips take.

Aoba places his hands atop his knees as he leans forward on the stool. His own mouth takes on a different bend, curving upward while he waits for the answer. He's patient. He knows it can take a while.

Which is fine.

Everything's going to be fine now.

Noiz looks away. "I guess? I don't really know."

"Hmmm, okay. How about this: how did you feel when you had a fever?"

The green gaze slides back. "Sick?" The end of the reply is too high; holds too much taunt to be genuine.

"That's not it!" Aoba puffs. "I mean, when I've been sick... like with the flu or something, I'm really uncomfortable. I ache all over and I sleep a lot."

A smile like a knife-wound cuts Noiz's face, splitting to reveal a strip of white teeth. His eyes close as he leans back into the bed. "Ahh, so even that..."

Aoba's attention wanders without his consent, eyes dropping to the fold of the hospital gown. "Not that either, then?" That's kinda sad. He watches Noiz's chest as he breathes. It rises higher than normal when he inhales deeply, then deflates as he releases a long, quiet sigh. (Was it relief?)

"I had no idea. I have so much to look forward to now." One eye opens. Aoba catches the movement with enough time to spare: he isn't caught looking at the wrong place. The smile Noiz isn't wearing comes out in his voice when he teases, "What did you do to me?"

It's not a real question: the time for that question has passed.

Today it's a joke; a simple thing not even meant to be funny. He asks with such fondness it makes Aoba's heart swell. "Sorry, sorry! If you get sick, I'll take care of you."

"Won't you get sick?"

"If I'm not careful. Maybe I'll wear a mask!"

The other eye opens. "Gas mask?" 

"Ah..." Aoba makes a face. "Not quite like that..."

Noiz seems to turn this new information over, examining all sides of what most people would take to be a casual remark. "If you got sick from taking care of me, I could take care of you."

Straight to the point. As usual. Aoba's face isn't warm yet, but if this keeps up... "No way!" Even in a hypothetical situation, who wants to be sick? "What if we kept passing it back and forth?"

"Is that how it works?"

Not exactly, but isn't that a complicated question Aoba isn't in any way qualified to explain? What would Granny say if she found out he gave the wrong answer? It's been so long since he's been sick. Not only that, but it seems mean to pass bad information on to someone who doesn't know any better. "With my luck it is!"

There's something dangerous about the way Noiz looks at him, voice dropping in accord with his eyelashes, which stop when his eyes are nothing more than narrow green slivers of pointed intent. "I wouldn't mind getting sick however many times if it meant being cared for by you."

It's funny how you can become aware of your blood vessels. All of them. How they feel like a network of heat -- an internal lightning strike branching across Aoba's face, scorching his skin pink. "Save that for when you're actually sick!"

He stands from the stool, swinging his arm as if to smack him. Noiz's laugh is soft and breathy (he's the frustrating type of guy who doesn't mind being hit) but the blow never lands.

It hovers, hesitating inches from his pallid face. (Even on a day when he isn't confined to a hospital, isn't he unnaturally pale?) Aoba braces his other palm against the edge of the bed, leaning in while the first settles on skin; dainty as if afraid the slightest touch might cause injury.

Noiz stares at the hand on his cheek for an unfocused moment, looking up the length of the attached arm, taking in all there is to see until he reaches his final destination: Aoba's eyes.

It's like gripping a live wire: neither let go of the connection. It lingers; air heavy between them, incubating with sentiments not yet ready to be expressed.

In time, Noiz leans his cheek against the palm, brushing into it the way a cat might: eyes shut; no tension to be found anywhere in his face.

A deep ache burrows into Aoba's chest and seizes his heart, winding around it so tightly it feels strung up, tied to the point its binds are digging into the meat. It's only a matter of time before it cuts. (It might have already: there's an explosion of heat inside his rib cage.)

He curls and uncurls his fingers, stroking the skin beneath his hand. His throat is tight. Noiz is...

...really cute. It's painful. In a good way. Not the masochistic way where--

"...it was like thinking through a sponge, I think."

\--what? "Hm?"

"Fever."

As if trying to establish a link between that isolated child so many years in the past and the concept of humanity, Aoba offers, "I don't think well when I've got a fever either." He moves his thumb, gently nudging against a piercing under Noiz's mouth; rubbing half-circles beneath it.

A sponge, was it? He must have been searching his memory for a recent comparison that would make sense based on his limited experience of touch. That's cute.

Noiz doesn't open his eyes. "My body wouldn't do what I wanted."

"Like what?" Aoba's voice is quiet, like sharing secrets.

"Opening a window. I didn't know why I was so weak."

"Did you ever get it open?"

"Broke it."

"The window?"

"Yeah."

"Like... the frame and everything?"

"Glass."

"You... Isn't that harder than opening a window?"

He feels a grin before he sees it. "I was really pissed."

He's grateful Noiz doesn't see his face. He can tell from the straining in his brows that he must look like kind of disaster of pain, sadness, and sympathy. "You were in the room." He regrets asking.

"Yeah. Glass wasn't a problem after that."

Aoba's mouth twitches.

Warm words interrupt, murmuring against his palm. "What? Your fingers are stiff."

The equally-stiff hospital sheets rustle when Aoba sits on the edge of the bed, refusing to break contact with Noiz's face as if his fingers had been glued there. "Sorry."

"Sorry?"

"For making you talk about that."

"Making me?" He watches while Noiz opens an eye, noting the careful way it explores his face and measures his expression; how his mouth tightens as his brows lift in a mild form of concerned confusion. "Does it bother you?"

"No, but..." It does, but he decides it's best to put that difficult emotion on hold for now. He isn't confident in his ability to express it. Even if he says _It does. It bothers me a lot. I hate it. I hate that it happened to you, but even so, I want to hear about it!_ it doesn't mean Noiz won't misinterpret his desire and keep those things to himself. "It doesn't bother you?"

"No." The eye closes again, satisfied with the shortcut. "It happened. That's about it."

Somehow, that makes it worse. He'd seen enough of Noiz's mind to know that as a child he'd screamed and cried; felt pity for himself and his condition. He didn't understand. He was lonely. Even after he was free, he locked himself up. The damage had been done.

What was left inside was like an artifact--a warning: _this is how cruel humans can be._

When was the last time he'd cried about anything?

He bows his head, blending blue and blond hair together when he presses their foreheads together. He feels a bit guilty about using the gesture on someone other than Ren, but this is a special circumstance. He can make an exception just this once.

"Aoba..." His heart jumps when he hears his name fashioned into a hoarse whisper. "Are you sad for me?"

"Um." Is there a good answer to that? "Well..."

"You should be. Do you know how lonely my lips are?"

Aoba's body becomes rigid, flustered as he lifts his head to look into the clever, electric eyes. He doesn't make a sound.

He replies with his mouth in a different way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The curtains bleed light into the room.

Noiz is recovering well: the bandages have come off his hands. A lot has happened, but it won't be long before he's out.

Aoba brought him new magazines, a book, ( _"I didn't know what you like, but reading magazines all the time gets boring, right?"_ ), and snacks. Noiz hadn't said much to him since then.

Which feels like fifteen minutes ago.

A quick check of his coil proves him wrong: not even a minute has passed (but it will in a few seconds). Still, isn't that a long time to stare at someone without saying anything? He fidgets under the intensity. "Um..."

Not only that, it's a weird stare: not the type that sees through you, looking at some distant object through transparent matter. It's worse: opposite--the kind that tries to climb into you; pull you apart; figure you out.

The stool is so close to the bed he sits sideways to make room for his legs, body twisted so he can look at Noiz. "What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Then wh--!"

He feels the strength of fingertips sinking into his cheek--hard at first, but they quickly assess just how pliant the skin is; what must be too rough; and in no time at all, the touch might as well belong to someone else for how gentle it becomes. He watches Noiz's face in mute fascination. What's he thinking about? What connections are his thoughts making?

Noiz's eyes widen -- but his pupils seem to leak light out as opposed to taking more in, expanding by a degree that would have been imperceptible if only Aoba hadn't been paying attention.

His eyelashes twitch when he feels a thumb stroke his cheek. "Your skin..."

Aoba's face becomes a pleasant pink, as if the colour had been rubbed there. "What about it?"

The answer is a dark murmur. "Soft..."

He doesn't intend to inhale so sharply. (Why did he gasp?) He feels his breath quicken; eyes half-lidded.

"...the way it feels when I press it." A tender pressure.

"This is..." Aoba doesn't finish. He feels hot. This is more embarrassing than the prospect of being overheard having hospital sex.

"Close your eyes."

"Eh?" He obeys, but it's not the command that prompts him: it's the back of a hand gently coasting across his eyelashes.

"Tickles."

Aoba exhales a quiet, unstable breath. This is... strangely sensual, isn't it? It isn't just him. This isn't normal. This isn't-

"Gimme your hand."

He opens his eyes, sneaking a glance down as if confirming he's not doing anything important with it before he hands it over.

Noiz makes a sound halfway between laugh and snort, as if to say _you idiot_ , then pulls him into the bed.

"Hey!" Aoba's free hand flounders, searching for stability in an unstable position.

"Lie down with me."

"Aren't you just giving commands? I'm not a dog!" It's inappropriate to imagine having sex with someone after you've imagined yourself like a dog, giving them your paw. Probably? Either way, those thoughts certainly don't require further examination!

"Should I stop?" A palm grips Aoba's elbow, securing a steady hold on his whole arm.

He isn't letting go. It was a trap.

Aoba looks to the ceiling, as if in thought. "Well..." Pretending he doesn't have a choice and must make concessions. "If you're being this demanding, it means you're almost better, so I'll let it slide." Like his eyes, which slip back to Noiz. His expression is stained in a warm sentiment he hasn't seen yet. That feverish look, but... something's different.

"Come down already."

"There's no room for both of us."

"On me."

"I just got here!"

The smirk that answers him isn't helpful. "Relax."

"How can I relax around you!"

"You'll learn."

It's like being swept off your feet, if being swept off your feet entails a freefall into the ocean; breaking you boneless as you sink, sucked into the undertow; drowning in the smell of sterile bandages, cheap soap, and... Noiz. "Your body..." He's recovering well, but he isn't all better yet. He needs to take it easy. He needs-

"It's fine. Put your head here."

Has the hospital bed always been this creaky? He doesn't think it has. It's not making the search for comfort easy. He ends up settling for a position half-on and half-off Noiz's body (a bed this size isn't made for two people), which isn't too comfortable, but it'll do. He tilts a look up, peeking through a screen of blue hair. "Let me know if it hurts."

As if mesmerized, he replies, "Yeah, sure."

"So this is okay?"

A strange, warm silence. "...perfect."

"Huh?" He isn't sure he heard it properly. That's not the kind of word he's used to hearing Noiz say.

"It's perfect."

...he definitely did. "Noiz..."

The trance ends when he hears his name, as if brought back to reality. "What?" Exactly how unguarded is he?

Aoba closes his eyes. "This might sound kinda..." Pause. "...well, I want to say it anyway. I know you said you wouldn't have minded if you died, but... I'm glad. Like, I'm really glad you're alive."

It's interesting to hear and feel the hitch in the breath of the body beneath you at the same time; like every cell of every muscle, bone, and organ has suddenly locked up, unsure how to handle the information he's received. Unsure how to proceed. The next exhale he hears comes out shivering.

An arm curls around his waist, fastening him there like it intends to make him a permanent attachment.

It's not a surprise. He's never heard anything like that before, has he? There was nothing like this sentiment in his dark room.

That's why it's important to spoil him a little now that he's out.


End file.
